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Thursday, June 7, 2012

Sunbeam by Anna Akhmatova

I pray to the sunbeam from the window - 
It is pale, thin, straight. 
Since morning I have been silent, 
And my heart - is split. 
The copper on my washstand 
Has turned green, 
But the sunbeam plays on it 
So charmingly. 
How innocent it is, and simple, 
In the evening calm, 
But to me in this deserted temple 
It's like a golden celebration, 
And a consolation.

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